So on the third day of Lent I’ve got COVID,
it turns out, the day after a day of travel
when so many strangers came to my aid
as I made my way on public transportation
in a city not my own.

I think of them, because—forgive me—
I shunned the mask I’d worn on the plane
as I walked Seattle’s drizzled streets,
shedding and spreading germs I didn’t
yet know I had, turning my prayers
into protective pleas for all those I have
inadvertently infected:

Dear gods of fortification,

Shield the young masked man I sat next to
on light rail from the germs that have
made me feverish, not to mention
kind strangers like Ann who led me up
the escalator out of light rail darkness,
then two blocks down the steep hill,
as well as the young woman who
sheltered me with her umbrella as,
my hands full, we walked another block
toward the ferry and my trip across
the sound.

Most of all, safeguard Terri,
my friend whom I’ve come to support
as she works on her memoir—we two who
live two states apart—the protective
mask of Zoom usually between us.

Now I rest in her downstairs bedroom
as I repent and regret by a window
that looks out on a most glorious day,
the serene water stretching its blue
heart across the canal.

I watch a small boat in the distance
head south, sending perfectly spaced,
accordion-pleat waves toward this
placid shore that I occupy for a time—
giving up a bit of health, sequestering
for part of this Lenten season,

coming as I am—as we all are,
healing, trusting, breathing—
into a perfectly imperfect
moment.